


In The End (It Doesn’t Even Matter)

by chasethewind



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Betrayal, Canon Related, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post Season 1, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 13:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasethewind/pseuds/chasethewind
Summary: Life’s isn’t fair, Alex reminds himself, and in the end, it doesn’t even matter.





	In The End (It Doesn’t Even Matter)

**Author's Note:**

> I want to warn you right now, this story is angst heavy and discusses some deeply disturbing facets of mental health such as depression and suicide.
> 
> Also, the ending has been left open and ambiguous for a reason. There will be a second part to the story, but at this point, it’s still in planning stages.
> 
> If you are triggered by any of these things, read at your own risk or click the back button. I promise I won’t be offended if you do. I know this isn’t everybody’s cup of tea.
> 
> YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Life isn’t fair. Alex Manes knows that on a personal level. He’s lived most of his life in fear: fear of his father, fear for his life, fear for the lives of others. He spent his formative years fearing the abuse his father doled out in spades. He spent his teenage years fearing the backlash of being the only queer person out at school. He spent the next ten years fearing for his life in the most war ravaged parts of the world.

But today, that fear manifests itself in ways Alex never could have imagined. It’s fear born of the legacy his father and forefathers created, of being unable to atone for their sins. It’s the fear of looking in the eyes of the people he cares about most and telling them of the atrocities he’s witnessed firsthand. It’s the fear of not being able to give them the closure they so desperately seek.

More than that, more than anything really, it’s the fear of losing the people he loves, the family he’s found all by himself. It’s the fear of each one walking out of his life, one by one, until he’s left, alone and staring aimlessly into the vast expanse of the desert that surrounds his little cabin so far outside of town that if anything happened to him, no one would even know.

Alex thinks about all those things on a daily basis. Lately, those fears have slowly come to fruition. It had started with Caufield and Michael walking away from him for once. Then it began to snowball: Kyle getting shot by his father. His father ended up in a coma because of Kyle’s own retaliation. Max dying and Rosa coming back to life. Liz’s grief. Maria’s betrayal.

With a heavy heart, Alex stares at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror. His skin, although rosy from the warmth of his morning shower, has paled considerably in the past few months. Dark circles ring his eyes from hours spent in front of artificial lights radiating off computer monitors. He can feel the darkness creeping into his soul, transforming what was once a bright and hopeful future into something grim and hopeless.

Life’s isn’t fair, Alex reminds himself, and in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

Opening the drawer to the left of the sink, he pulls out several orange pill bottles, each one carefully marked from the pharmacy with dosage instructions and side effect warning. Alex picks up the first bottle and stares at it. _Sertraline (Zoloft) 100mg; Take one tablet by mouth once daily. May cause dizziness. Do not drive or perform other potentially dangerous tasks until you know how this medicine affects you. Do not take other medications without checking with your doctor or pharmacist. _Alex hasn’t read the information on the bottle since it was first prescribed to him for his PTSD.

He breaths a deep sigh, putting it down on the counter before picking up a second orange bottle. _Oxycodone (OxyContin) 10mg; Take one tablet by mouth twice daily. May cause dizziness. Do not drive or perform other potentially dangerous tasks until you know how this medicine affects you._

It’s a pain reliever, one with another terrible side effect: addiction. Alex hates taking it, but on his worst days, it’s the only thing that keeps him upright. Lately, it seems everyday is a bad day that just gets worse as the hours pass. Sitting in a terrible chair in the Project Shepherd bunker doesn’t do him any good. He’s vowed to get a better chair, one for comfort, but the daily reminder that this is supposed to hurt keeps him from doing it. The sins of the father, he reminds himself.

The third orange bottle reads: _Clonazepam (Klonopin) 0.5mg; Take one tablet by mouth twice daily. May cause dizziness. Do not drive or perform other potentially dangerous tasks until you know how this medicine affects you. _It’s for the anxiety that more often than not speeps into his daily life and leaves him feeling either edgy, irritable, restless, or all of the above.

Alex hates all these aspects of his life, hates taking all these pills, hates seeing a therapist on a monthly basis, especially as of late. His life has become so complicated, so fraught with secrets that he can’t even talk to a professional about them without either sounding completely insane or being reported to the government.

Setting the last bottle down on the counter, he gazes up and takes another look at himself in the mirror. It’s become ever harder not to see his father staring back at him, reminding him day in and day out of the mess his life has become. Alex isn’t winning any battles now. Instead, he’s fighting a secret war, one where a single keystroke can undo months of hard work and possibly send him and his friends running for their lives.

On good days, Alex feels confident in his ability to keep his friends, his little family, safe. Today isn’t one of those days. Today he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, slowly forcing him to sink into the earth as it strangles him from above. He takes the pill bottles into his hand and stares at them.

For a moment, Alex wonders what would happen if he took more than he was supposed to. He wonders how quickly their combined sedative effects would pull him into an endless sleep. He wonders if he’ll finally find the peace and solace he’s been searching for since Michael walked out of his life.

“Don’t you dare!” a voice from deep in his mind hisses. It sounds very much like Kyle Valenti.

Alex shakes his head and closes his eyes. Is he hallucinating? It makes sense, honestly. He’s been running on little to no sleep and high doses of caffeine and sugar for the past week. Hallucinating makes the most sense and gives him all the more reason to pop the pills he holds in his hand.

“Put the bottles down,” the voice commands. “You are not taking the coward’s way out.”

Alex barks out a laugh. “I’m losing my fucking mind,” he says to himself, running his free hand over his face in exasperation.

Maybe he does want to take the coward’s way out. Maybe, for once, he wants to be selfish. Maybe he’s just so done with everything and everyone that he finds downing the pills the easy way out of a life fraught with cover-ups and conspiracies, loss and guilt. Alex looks at the pill bottles again. They’re calling out to him, begging to be taken.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Kyle’s voice says in the back of his mind.

Alex doesn’t feel very brave at that moment. But he does think about Kyle and the way they’ve managed to become friends again, maybe even best friends considering how much time they spend together in the bunker pouring over their fathers’ work on Project Shepherd. If anyone would really, truly miss him, it would be Kyle.

Opening the drawer to the left of the sink, Alex throws the bottles back inside and shuts it with a bang.

* * *

Morning turns to midday only to find Alex laying in bed watching the sunlight streams through the cracks in the curtains. He hasn’t moved from the spot since he crawled back under the covers after his shower. It’s warm, comforting, and a million miles away from his problems. He wants to stay there all day, but his stomach protests loudly.

He needs sustenance, real food, not the stale box of Pop Tarts he keeps in case of emergency. There hasn’t been real food in the cabin for almost a month. Alex hasn’t been to the grocery store in a while, mostly eating takeout from the Crashdown, convenience store hot dogs, and far too much coffee from Bean Me Up. He knows he should take better care of himself. He still exercises daily, does his PT, but it leaves him exhausted and winded.

Today, Alex hasn’t done either. The bed is far too comfortable and he really doesn’t want to get up. But his stomach keeps growling and the hunger builds. He can feel it at the back of his throat now and slowly sits up, swiping a hand over his face as he rubs the exhaustion from his eyes.

Alex hobbles to the kitchen on his crutches hoping to find something in the freezer at least, but upon opening the drawer, there’s nothing except a tray full of ice cubes and several cold packs. With a sigh, he heads back into the bedroom, pulling open dresser drawers and throwing a plain gray t-shirt and sweatpants onto the unmade bed.

Once ready and prosthetic on, Alex grabs a hoodie from where he’d left it over the back of the couch last night and heads out. The keys to his black SUV are in the bowl on the table beside the door, his car parked in front of the porch. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he looks over to find a Crashdown wrapper in the footwell of his passenger’s seat.

Alex’s head rolls back, hitting the headrest. Liz Ortecho immediately comes to mind. Weeks, possibly even months have gone by since they’ve seen each other. Her mind is preoccupied with bringing Max back from the dead, leaving her very little time to spend with her friends. When she’s not in the lab, she’s either helping her father at the Crashdown or re-assimilating Rosa back into society as her cousin from Colorado. It had been Alex’s idea to create a fake identity, and he’d spent a full week with Rosa going over the dossier he’d meticulously put together for her. That had been over a month ago.

He sighs, slipping the key into the ignition and starting the car. There are miles for him to sit and think between the cabin and Roswell proper, so he does. Alex’s thoughts drift back to his stomach and the hunger that continues to swell. When was the last time he ate? Probably midday yesterday, taking a break from Project Shepherd for takeout Kyle had brought from the Crashdown.

Liz slips back into his mind. Every now and then a text pops up with her name on it saying something along the lines of “Hey! Long time, no see! We should hang out!” Alex usually indulges her with a reply: “Yeah, totally.” But they never follow through. He misses his friend, but at the same time, he knows she has far more important things to worry about. Things that don’t involve him.

Empty road stretches out through vast, open desert in front of him for miles. Up ahead, a bridge comes into view. The dark thoughts that have plagued Alex all day return. He ponders what would happen if he “accidentally” swerves off the road and straight into the ravine below. Would anyone notice the car in the ditch? How hard would the impact be if he’s going sixty-five?

“Ay, cabrón, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Thankfully the road is empty as Alex screeches to a halt just feet from the bridge. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he thinks, pulling onto the shoulder to try and calm his racing mind.

That was definitely Liz’s voice. At this point, Alex knows the hunger, the sleep deprivation, and all the crazy shit he’s read in the Project Shepherd files are culminating into an epic mental breakdown if he keeps hearing the voices of his friends asking him what he’s doing. First Kyle, now Liz. He begins to worry who’ll be next to visit his mindscape.

For all intents and purposes, Alex knows what his mind is trying to do. The rebellious teenager he once was is warring with the scarred and broken man he’s become. His teenage self is fighting the dangerous morose thoughts swirling in his mind, trying to keep him from going through with the non-stop depressive ideas that have plagued him since Caulfield.

‘It just comes with the territory,’ Alex thinks, effectively silencing both parts of his brain as he puts the car in park and steps out onto the shoulder. He walks to the bridge to stand at the railing, looking down into the empty riverbed below. Closing his eyes, he breathes in the cool December air before throwing his head back. When they open a few moments later, it’s to an endless blue sky. His head tilts back down, eyes staring at the dry riverbed as he leans over the railing.

Freefall. Alex remembers the weightlessness he felt back when he was in basic jumping out of an airplane and falling through the sky. He remembers the rush of the wind on his face, the eerie silence that comes from being so high up above the Earth before his parachute opens and everything settles around him.

Alex wonders if that’s what it’ll feel like if he leaned too far over the railing and “accidentally” fell to the riverbed below.

“Who’s the crappy friend now?” Liz’s voice chides. He can picture her with her arms crossed over her chest, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised as she glares at him.

Alex grabs the railing and leans back toward the road as he shakes his head and huffs out a breath. He remembers that conversation from months ago, remembers confronting Liz for being caught up in her problems, her trauma, her work.

“You are not this person, Alex,” she says. “I’m here for you, and whether you like it or not, your life makes a difference to me. So don’t do this. Be strong. Be brave.”

Alex pushes off the railing and heads back to his car. Shutting the door, he heads into town.

* * *

The clock on his phone reads 1:53 PM. Alex has forgone the Crashdown in favor of the grocery store. He can’t stomach the thought of interacting with his friends when he doesn’t feel strong enough to put on a brave face in front of them. He’s hidden the pain from them for so long that actually letting anyone in at this point would only cause him more grief, no matter how badly he wants to be seen. The only person that’s ever really _seen _him has been Michael, but that’s a bridge he’d burned to the ground.

The grocery store is empty, for the most part. Alex only passes another shopper once, an old woman with gray hair and tortoiseshell glasses. They pay each other no mind, and he continues to peruse the aisles.

His basket isn’t very full; a pre-packaged bag of baby carrots, two potatoes, a grapefruit, and a box of Cheerios. He still needs to grab a carton of milk and maybe some chicken breasts, but as soon as he enters the next aisle, he stops.

Shelf upon shelf of alcohol makes Alex pause. The last time he had a drink was about a week ago. He’d polished off a fifth of whiskey before passing out for the night. The idea of picking up another bottle, maybe a handle this time, is tempting. He slowly makes his way down the aisle, dark eyes searching each shelf for what he’s looking for. Toward the center, he finds it: Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey.

Alex snags the bottle off the shelf without a second thought. He grabs the milk and chicken on his way toward the cash register, pays, then leaves.

The drive home is blissfully silent. There are no voices calling out to him, just open road and desert. He turns on the stereo as an added layer of protection from his thoughts. The emo kid in him delights in years-old Panic! At The Disco lyrics that come through the speakers. He hums along to each song off his favorite Spotify playlist until he finally reaches the long winding dirt driveway that leads up to the cabin.

It doesn’t take Alex long to grab the two bags of groceries and put them away in the small kitchen. He leaves out the chicken and potatoes. The chicken will end up in a skillet, chopped into bite-sized pieces, while a potato bakes in the microwave. It’s not much, but it’s a home cooked meal, the first one he’s made himself since before Caulfield.

The atrocities he witnessed that day make Alex reach for the bottle of Jack. He unscrews the cap and takes a large swig without even thinking about it. On an empty stomach, it hits him fast, coursing through his veins and rendering him tipsy in a matter of minutes.

It feels good, though. Alex takes another swig, this time smaller, and places the bottle on the counter beside the stove. Grabbing the pack of chicken breasts, he decides to forego cutting it up into pieces and instead throws it into a pan with some salt and pepper as seasoning. The potato goes into the microwave, and dinner practically cooks itself while he stands there, making sure everything cooks evenly.

The bottle stays close. Alex sips from it every now and then as the chicken sizzles on the stove. In less than ten minutes, he has a full meal plated and sitting on the kitchen counter, the bottle of Jack beside it as well as a fork and a knife. He eats by himself, the silence enveloping him as the sun dips beneath the horizon. It’s blissfully quiet around him and inside his head.

There are no voices to contend with when he has a full belly and three quarters of a bottle of liquor at his side. Alex is proud of himself for not going on a bender. The past few hours have been good to him. Maybe the early morning funk was a fluke. Maybe all he needed was a home cooked meal and a day away from everyone and everything that reminded him of how his father had fucked up so many lives in a bid to protect the world from aliens.

With a smile on his face, Alex does the dishes and leaves the bottle on the counter, intending to put it away later. That is until his phone rings. He isn’t paying attention to the screen as he answers, figuring it’s probably Kyle checking in to see how he’s doing. Alex knows the good doctor is onto him. He knows from the way Kyle asks certain questions to ascertain information about his mental health without setting off alarm bells in Alex’s head. He allows it because Kyle isn’t intrusive. He’s just trying to be a good friend.

“What’s up?” Alex asks, leaving formalities behind.

“Alex?” Maria DeLuca’s soft, almost broken voice makes him freeze in the middle of his kitchen. He hasn’t seen or spoken to her since the day after Caulfield, the day after finding out Michael had gone to her, essentially walking out of his life. It’s the day that forever changes his relationship with the two people he loves most.

“Can we talk?” she continues, breaking Alex out of his thoughts.

“What do you want?” he asks. It comes out far harsher than he intends, but what can Alex do when his best friend’s betrayal is still fresh in his mind?

Maria had pointedly told him her drunk, dusty no-good Texas rounder with Michael meant nothing. At the time, it seemed like a promise of sorts, that she wouldn’t go after the love of Alex’s life. And he’d believed her. He’d trusted her not to go back on her word. Fool me once, Alex thinks, tempted to hang up the phone.

“I want to apologize,” Maria says, her voice coming out a little more broken.

It sets Alex off. “Apologize?” he incredulously replies.

“Alex, please! I’m so sor-”

He cuts her off. “Do you even know why you’re apologizing?” Alex asks.

“I do,” Maria quietly answers. He waits, giving her a moment to gather her thoughts. When she finally speaks, it’s soft and almost hushed, as if she’s ashamed. “I’m sorry for the way things happened with me and Michael.”

Alex shakes his head, bites his lower lip in a bid to get his irritation under control, then huffs out a breath. “It’s been over a month. Why now? Why not talk to me sooner? Were you afraid, or did you just feel guilty?” he spits back, unable to control the anger that now courses through his veins.

“No!” Maria cries. “I just… I didn’t-didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell you what I felt for him.”

“Were you lying when you told me what happened in Texas meant nothing?” Alex goes straight for the jugular. He’s not pussy-footing around tonight. The past twelve hours had been hell, so bringing this up now, he just wants to bite the bullet and get it over with.

“I wasn’t,” she says. “It’s just… Things happened so fast after that. And I couldn’t stop myself from falling. Michael’s been good to me over the years and I guess after all that time, something just clicked.”

Alex wishes he wasn’t having this conversation with someone he once considered his best friend because he understands the gravitational pull of Michael Guerin. He understands what it feels like to have the world stop the moment those gold-flecked hazel eyes focus on him. He feels the way the butterflies in his stomach come roaring to life when Michael kisses him. But knowing his oldest friend, his _best _friend, is now the receiver of his affections kills Alex in a way he’s never felt before.

It doesn’t feel like the way his father used to beat him until he was nearly unconscious. It doesn’t feel the way it did when that IED exploded in Iraq. It doesn’t even feel the way it did when Michael showed him his bunker and revealed he was trying to rebuild the ship he crashed on in a bid to leave the planet. No, it feels like a combination of all three while simultaneously being flayed open and having his heart ripped from his chest.

“Then why are you telling me this now?” Alex demands. “Why did you wait over a month to come and talk to me?”

“Because Michael said it was over,” Maria tries to explain.

“Did you even pause to think about whether it was over for me?” Alex’s voice breaks as the emotions he’d felt that day burst through the flimsy dam he’d built around them in a bid to forget his pain. “Did you even consider talking to me about it before you jumped right back into bed with him?”

“I-I…” she stutters.

“No, you didn’t,” he answers for her. For a long moment, Alex stands there in the middle of his kitchen, tears he refuses to shed gathering at the corners of his eyes as he tries to calm his overworked mind.

“Alex…” Maria breaks the silence. “I _am _sorry.”

“You know what, Maria? There aren’t enough apologies in the world to fix what you did,” Alex snaps.

“But I didn’t mean to!” she tries to counter.

“You betrayed my trust, Maria,” Alex cooly replies. He leans heavily against the kitchen counter for support as he adds, “I trusted you when you finally figured out Michael was Museum Guy. I trusted you when you said Texas meant nothing. I trusted you not to go after the only person I’ve ever truly loved, but you did. You did, and it felt like you had taken a knife and stabbed me in the back. I thought you were my best friend, Maria! You were my family!”

“Alex, you’re still family to me.” He can hear the pain in her voice from the way it wobbles.

“Then why did you take the only other person who ever felt like family, like _home_, away from me?”

“Because I didn’t know!” Maira’s voice cracks.

Alex knows in the depths of his heart that the only reason Maira’s getting the brunt of his anger is because she’s on the phone with him now. Michael deserves it, too, but he’s not here at the moment. He hasn’t called or texted either. So Alex takes it out on her instead.

“But you did!” he accuses. “You knew, and you still did it! And you didn’t even have the decency to talk to me until now! Now, Maria! A whole month later!” Alex’s heart hurts enough for him to sink to the kitchen floor as hot tears slip down his cheeks. He swipes his hand over his face, taking a deep breath to calm his racing thoughts.

“Alex…”

He can’t deal with conversation anymore. Everything hurts. If Alex says anything more, he fears he won’t be able to stem the flow of tears now cascading down his cheeks, so he replies, “Goodbye, Maira,” and ends the call.

Flinging the phone as far away from him as he can, Alex brings his knees to his chest and lets his face sink into the soft fabric of his sweats. He cries for an inordinate amount of time starting with soft sniffles before breaking out into heart wrenching sobs. The pain, a sharp sting at first, blossoms into full on agony.

* * *

Alex doesn’t know how long he’s been curled up on the kitchen floor. When he raises his head, darkness has enveloped the cabin. He grabs the kitchen counter for support as he lifts off the hardwood floor. Pain radiates out from his right leg to the point where a single step nearly causes him to fall.

Hanging on to the kitchen counter for support, Alex limps forward until he finds the light switch and flicks it on. The room illuminates with the golden glow of incandescent light. As his eyes adjust, they settle on the counter and the bottle of Jack. He grabs it without a thought, unscrews the cap, and takes a large gulp of the amber liquid. Then another. And another.

After the day he’s had, Alex gives up any pretense of a sober evening. Everything still hurts, but the more he drinks, the less it stings. He limps to the couch, the bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm until he takes a seat on the old, familiar cushions.

As the level of alcohol quickly rises in his system, so do the memories of the past several months. They hit Alex one by one, reminding him of the mistakes he’s made, of the choices he thought were right but clearly ended up being wrong. Of all the moments his brain could bring up, the first is the kiss he’d shared with Michael at their high school reunion.

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never really has, has it? Alex thinks about that statement. It’s been the running theme in his life. He’s never gotten what he wanted, has never really been in control of anything. His choices for the past decade have been made by other people, his hand forced for one reason or another. Most of the time, it had been to prevent others from getting hurt. But then, Michael had kissed him, and for the first time in ten years, he’d made the choice to kiss back. And it had felt so _right_. He had taken what he wanted without second guessing himself.

What followed was a messy semblance of a relationship, if it can even be called that. Alex knows, deep down, that what he had with Michael those first few weeks couldn’t be considered a relationship.

More memories flood through him, ones that remind him he’d made some pretty terrible choices. The first being his inability to allow Michael to tell Isobel they were hooking up. Alex remembers the hurt he’d seen on his lover’s face, the way it fell just before Michael had closed himself off, pulled on his pants, and walked out of the trailer to talk to his sister. He feels shame over that moment and realizes that the actions that followed were meant to reign in some of that panic he’d felt at people knowing about their tentative relationship.

That’s why the drive-in comes to mind next. God, he’d really made a mistake then, allowing his fucking father to get into his head during what should have been a wonderful, easygoing first date with Michael. Alex hangs his head in shame over the way he handled that situation. He’d walked away, yet again, leaving Michael behind with excuses.

He drains the bottle of Jack to the halfway mark at this point. Pain and anger mix with the alcohol running through Alex’s veins. Pain at the thought of constantly walking away from Michael. Anger at himself for allowing his father to continue to control his actions. He shakes his head, tells himself to stop, but the memories don’t.

The next one tears at his heart: Michael standing in front of him as he tugs his boot off and tips it over, allowing Maria’s necklace to fall into his hand. The pain that comes with that memory is exacerbated by the conversation he’d just had with his former best friend. A sob rips from his throat as he tries to cover it with his hand, but it rings through the empty cabin.

Alex tries to drown his sorrows with more liquor, but it seems to be having the opposite effect. Instead of stopping the memories, they come unbidden, one after another: Michael showing him his bunker and the console of the spaceship he’s trying to rebuild in an effort to leave the planet. Michael shouting lies at him in an effort to get Alex to leave him behind as the clock inches closer to zero at Caulfield. Michael holding onto him after a moment spent with the woman Alex now knows is his mother. Michael covered in blood he says isn’t his own, but Alex knows damn well it probably is.

And then, watching Michael kiss Maria after failing to show up at his trailer for the talk he promised to have with Alex. That memory is forever seared in his mind, causing the ache in his chest to grow exponentially. It’s a pain so raw, so encompassing, that it causes Alex to tip back the bottle of Jack and drink the rest of its contents in one go.

He prays for the blackout that’s coming, wants it to completely envelope him, but it doesn’t. It never comes. Instead, Alex sits there on the couch, piss drunk and emotionally oversensitive. He glances around his cabin, eyes searching for something, _anything _to numb the pain. The land on the coffee table and the drawer in front of him. Alex reaches for the old metal latch and wonders why he’s so drawn to it, until the drawer opens and he peers inside. The 9mm Glock gleams up at him from where it’s nestled between a few old magazines.

It feels heavy in Alex’s hand as he picks it up and inspects it. He remembers putting it there in case of emergency, and in his desperate, alcohol addled brain, this is an emergency. His emotions have reached a point where death feels like a blessing. So Alex sits there, his eyes shifting from the Glock to the window and the vast expanse of New Mexico desert that surrounds his little cabin so far outside of town. He knows it’ll take days, if not a week, to even discover his body.

The cacophony of voices that fill Alex’s mind are deafening when he takes the safety off the gun and starts lifting it.

“Alex! Stop! No! That’s not the answer!” Kyle begs him. “This is not worth dying for. You’re stronger than this!”

“I’m weak! I’ve always been weak!” Alex shouts into the emptiness of the cabin. “This is the only answer!”

“Don’t do this, Alex!” Liz pleads. “You’ve been through so much and you’re so brave. You can get through this!”

“I can’t do this anymore!” Alex cries. His hand trembles as he lifts the gun higher.

“Alex, please, I’m so sorry!” Maria chimes in. “Don’t let what happened between us do this to you!”

“You do not get a say in any of this!” he screams, the gun now poised at his temple as his hand continues to tremble.

“Alex, please, put the gun down.” A new voice enters the fray, and it makes Alex’s heart flutters in his chest because it sounds so real, as if it was coming from somewhere near him. _Michael_. He sounds so calm, so cool and so collected.

Alex squeezes his eyes shut as tears drip down his cheeks. The whole day, he’d somehow managed to avoid Michael’s voice in his head. But now the pain, the anguish, the heartache has reached its peak. With his free hand, he swipes at his face, wiping the tears away before opening his eyes again.

Seated in front of him on the coffee table is Michael himself, his gold-flecked hazel eyes full of concern as he stares back at Alex. The hallucinations have gotten worse. They are no longer auditory, meaning the alcohol has made a bad situation even worse.

“You’re not real!” Alex screams at the apparition.

“Alex… Alex! I’m right here.” The apparition leans forward, right hand held out as he slowly moves toward Alex.

“Don’t touch me!” Alex shouts, his grip on the gun tightening. He already has his finger on the trigger, ready to pull, ready to end all the pain, all the suffering, all the hurt he’s endured in his life. He can’t take it anymore. He just can’t. It’s too much all at once.

“Alex, please!” Michael’s apparition begs him, his voice cracking on the please. “This can’t be how it ends!”

“You wanted pyrotechnics, Guerin,” Alex replies, defeated. “I’m just giving you what you want.”

Alex breathes in deep, closes his eyes, and pulls the trigger. He expects the bullet to hit immediately, but what happens instead is a force beyond his control points the gun upward, away from his temple, and the bullet hits one of the rafters in the ceiling, showering him in splinters.

Alex opens his eyes once again, stunned at what has happened, only to find Michael still sitting there on the coffee table. His right hand is extended, palm up, fingers spread as he pants into the space between them.

“Jesus Christ, Alex!” he heaves, grabbing the collar of Alex’s shirt and pulling him forward until their foreheads are touching. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Blinking several times, Alex feels like the world has tilted on its axis. He’s shaking, trying to control his breathing, trying to control the spike of adrenaline that’s sent him spiraling back into reality. He stares at Michael for several long, tense moments, unable to believe that he isn’t some kind of hallucination brought on by too much alcohol and too little sleep.

“Michael?” he softly asks, his voice trembling as he tries to reconcile what just happened with the gun and what’s happening now. He lifts shaky hands up, cool fingers wrapping around warm wrists, and suddenly everything feels so off kilter, his body begins to fall.

Michael catches him, holding on tight as he lays him across the couch. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Michael assures him, slipping a pillow under Alex’s head.

The edges of his vision begin to blur, quickly fading to black. Alex still feels like the world has tilted on its axis, but now at a much harsher angle, one that is actually making him sick. Nausea hits him full force, and mere moments later, he’s losing the contents of his stomach. He’s never been happier to see a trash can in his life when he finds himself staring into it as he heaves.

A hand, _Michael’s hand_, cradles Alex’s forehead as he continues to vomit into the trash, the other hand gently stroking his back in a soothing manner. When he’s done, he tries to roll onto the couch, but can’t. His body refuses to respond, eyes blurring once again as the world starts to fade around him.

“Alex, how much have you had to drink?” Michael sounds far away even though he knows he’s still there sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

Alex wants to respond, tries to even, but with the edges of his vision quickly growing darker as the seconds tick by, he can’t. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that drinking an entire bottle of Jack would have potentially life threatening consequences. He just can’t find it in himself to care. Yes, Michael saved him from a bullet to the brain, but he’s not going to save him from this.

“Shit… Fuck!” Michael curses from somewhere above him. “I swear to god, Alex, if you die from alcohol poisoning after I saved you from shooting yourself in the head, I’m going to stick you in a pod, have Max bring you back, then kill you again myself.” It isn’t as much a threat as it is a desperate plea.

Michael’s arms slide beneath his shoulders and knees, hauling Alex into a bridal carry. “I’m taking you to the hospital,” he states matter-of-factly. “Just… stay with me, okay?” Michael sounds less self assured at that moment, scared even, and it hits Alex right in the heart.

Maybe if things weren’t so fucked up right now, he’d take it for what it was worth, but Alex can’t. He’s still hurting himself. He can’t see the forest for the trees. The thought of his pain and suffering ending is still a comforting thought. He holds onto it even as Michael carries him out into the blisteringly cold night and settles him into the cab of his truck.

The engine starts moments later and the truck pulls out of the long driveway. Alex’s last thought before he succumbs to unconsciousness is, “Maybe this is how the world ends, with a whimper instead of a bang.”

In the end, it doesn’t even matter.

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a massive apology and a tremendous thank you to those of you who have read through this fic and did not dismiss it.
> 
> I wrote this story during a period in my life shortly after being diagnosed as pre-diabetic on top of my lengthy list of mental health problems that include depression, anxiety, PTSD, ADHD, and binge eating disorder.
> 
> This story felt like a safe space to escape to while I dealt with my own suicidal thoughts. I’m still not as “okay” as I’d like to be, but I’m slowly getting there. Writing has always had a calming effect on me when things got tough. Sometimes I’d write happy things and sometimes you’d end up with fics like these. Either way, it’s cathartic to put my thoughts down and share them with the masses in fic form.
> 
> I am so grateful that the character of Alex Manes came into my life when he did because I feel such a deep kinship with him. I hope this story has done him justice.
> 
> I’d like to thank spoonie-with-a-dash-of-punk and zuluoscarecho (both on tumblr) with helping me beta this fic and for their much appreciated feedback.
> 
> If you’d like to come find me on social media, my handle is befitandchase on tumblr and Twitter.


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